Confiteor
by Fair-Ithil
Summary: It’s not hard and Dean tells himself he’s not afraid to die...


**Disclaimer: Kripke es el boss man around these parts.**

**A/N:** **Post-AHBL part two, Dean's PoV**, liberal usage of the Confiteor (prayer in Latin).

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_Confiteor Deo omnipotenti_

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It's not hard.

Putting too much stress on a syllable, letting his tongue knot over key phrases, dragging his fingers through the salt lines and breaking whatever affect they're supposed to be having.

It's not hard disrupting whatever ritual Sam insists they try, because, even if he never sees it his way, Dean's doing it for Sam.

It's not hard and Dean tells himself he's not afraid to die.

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_beatae Mariae semper Virgini_

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Sam refuses to stop.

He pours over every book in Bobby's library, tears through Dad's journal, consults Missouri, taps into every resource at their disposal.

He keeps a small leather book of notes, sharp angled letters that slope across the cream colored pages, dozens and dozens of pages with words like invalidate and free underlined. Dean sneaks looks at it whenever Sam isn't—looking that is, because Sam's always looking nowadays, eyes alert and wide, stray sideways glances and unabashed stares that make Dean's jaw tighten—and he gets a sense of where his brother is, tries to figure out how much more time before Sam gives up.

It's all about time now.

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_beato Michaeli Archangelo, beato Ioanni Baptistae, sanctis Apostolis Petro et Paulo, et omnibus Sanctis_

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When Dean sleeps, he dreams about his mother.

He dreams of his wish-world and Mary with crows-feet around her eyes and white strands in her hair. He feels her hand against his face and hears her incredulous chuckle, smells her, like almonds and Ivory soap. He dreams of his mother, telling him everything is going to be alright, telling him to get some rest.

All the dreams end the same, his mother in the dirty quiet of the warehouse, young and perfect—a perfection he'd thought belonged to memories that weren't quite his anymore—smile soft and pleading, and she touches his face, her mouth moving with words he can't believe anymore.

He wakes up then, the room dark and Sam breathing an echo Dean latches on to.

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_quia peccavi nimis cogitatione__ verbo et opere: mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa_

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Pastor Jim taught them their prayers.

English, Latin, practical, spiritual, he taught them all the words and principles to lead their father's life.

He taught them about Hell and Heaven, but Dean only really listened to the former. Because if there were evil things in the world he wanted to know where they came from, wanted to know where they were going (and his mother's angels played no part in that).

It's not till years later, while his brother mouth threw words at him that weren't remotely Sam's, its not till then that Dean considered the possibility that demons knew what hell was like too. It's only months after that that he sells his soul. Then there's only a year and Sam watching him and hoping and constantly scribbling things into a journal (and he looks so much like their father sometimes it startles Dean).

Sometime after that, Dean lets himself wonder if Pastor Jim got his information right.

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_Ideo precor beatam Mariam semper Virginem, beatum Michaelem Archangelum, beatum Ioannem Baptistam, sanctos Apostolos Petrum et Paulum, et omnes Sanctos_

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Sam throws the punch out of no where and Dean doesn't even have time to catch himself before he's ass down on the red South Dakota dirt of Bobby's scrap yard. "You son of a bitch." Sam growls and his fist is flying again and this time Dean lets it land because he figures he might deserves it. But Sam's punches don't stop and self-preservation lurches to life somewhere behind Dean's watering eyes and he bucks into the fight.

There's shrapnel everywhere to be mindful of and Jackson barks in the background, Sam's breathing heavy and irregular, and there are grunts and blows and skin breaking against skin, the hollowed out thwack of bodies thrown relentlessly against the packed dirt. Something digs into his back and Sam's knee presses down on his stomach. Dean's arm jerks off the ground and his elbow connects with Sam's cheekbone so hard his head flies to the side and Sam looses balance. The fight drains out of Sam on impact and he sprawls besides him, open-mouth inhales, blood collecting under the skin of his cheek. "You promised." He pants, and the words hit Dean harder than any punch could. "You promised."

Dean doesn't say anything and Sam doesn't move, just stays there, staring a hole into the ground, fingers twisting runes into the loosened dirt. "You said you would try."

And Dean wants to touch the spot where Sam's wound healed brown, wants to tell him he made another promise first. But Sam's just sitting there, shoulders hunched forward under the thin blue material of his t-shirt, face swelling, his eyes wide and alert beneath the edges of his hair. His just waiting for Dean to tell him everything is going to be alright, but Dean can't do this anymore.

"I can't Sammy."

There's 365 days in a year and Dean has spent 276 of them lying to his brother. And maybe this is for the best, telling Sam this close-to-the-bone truth. Maybe he'll put away his journal and the books. Maybe he'll stop staring at Dean and he'll just accept what needs to happen (you're not going to let me die in peace, are you?_ I'm not going to let you die period_.), maybe he'll learn from his mistakes.

"You promised."

And it's hard to get up—and the difficulty has nothing to do with the pain his ribs or face or hip—and it's hard to walk away from his brother.

It's hard and Dean tells himself he's not afraid to die.

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_orare pro me ad Dominum Deum nostrum. Amen_

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**End**

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**Feedback Is Love**


End file.
